


Till Twilight Comes

by Maesonry



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Scream (Movies), Stranger Things (TV 2016), The Thing - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Bro... What If We Kissed, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Gender-neutral Reader, Horror, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implications, M/M, Makeout Sessions with Your Bro, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Romance, Unhealthy Relationships, trans reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2020-12-01 20:39:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 14,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20892500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maesonry/pseuds/Maesonry
Summary: Various Dead by Daylight and other Slasher oneshots that were too small for their own story. Characters and ships tagged at the start of each chapter.“Jake barred his teeth, staring defiantly up at the Entity, blood trickling from the side of his mouth. The spikes shot forward.”





	1. Under My Skin (Jake Park, Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Jake Park, Jake Park’s Dad, Eldritch Reader
> 
> Ships: Implied Jake Park/Reader
> 
> SFW

“Hello, Mr. Park.”

It’s quiet. The office is, after all, quite quiet. You make a show of cooing as you enter, the double doors closing behind you without their usual echoing click. Just silence. Too far up for even birds, no quiet hum of an air conditioner. You smile in what you hope is a disarming fashion.

In front of you, at the far end of the marbled room, is a desk. Carved from... an expensive wood. You don’t know and don’t care. And behind the desk are massive arching windows that show off the entire city sprawled below. It’s a lovely view. And, unfortunately, it’s spoiled by the man sitting at the desk itself.

Mr. Park.

He’s staring at you. You tilt your head, stepping forward some more, “It’s a _pleasure_ to see you. Honest. It feels like it’s been an age since we last talked.”

You’ve never talked, actually, but you’ve spoken a few times in your mind, and isn’t that the same thing? 

“Who are you?” Mr. Park demands, “I’m calling security.”

Ah. How boring. In a blink, you’re suddenly leaning on his desk, looming over him with a smile that hasn’t changed so much as the air around it seems to have intensified, “I wouldn’t do that if I was you, _Mr. Park_,” his hand still inching towards the secret buzzer, and you slam your own fists down on the table and lean far in, your eyes not so much wild as they are a mirror of a forest, untamed and unfettered, “Because then I’d have to kill you, I’m afraid. And that’s just so-“ your fingers gouge into the wood, and your voice is vines and ancient things, “messy.”

He’s stopped moving. Good. You’d hate dealing with him when he’s pretending to be clever. 

“Good. Good,” you lean back, and mirth returns to your eyes, as your shoes click against the marble and tilt your head, “But, well. I’m afraid I’m not here for pleasure. All business, you understand.” 

Mr. Park stares at you. You both blink a few times, then you roll your eyes, “A joke. It was a joke,” and, you clap your hands together, “Well, then. I suppose I should cut right to it-“

“Who are you?” he interrupts. You narrow your gaze.

“I like you alive, so, I’ll let this slide just this once,” and you slither through the air, like heat waves rippling, “But who am I? I’m...”

Darkness. Cold. Warmth. Summer kisses. Winter gasping breaths. Freshly opened cans of soda. Oil lanterns burning out in the emptiness of sea. 

“I’m your _friend_,” you settle on.

Mr. Park is practicing the ancient art of keeping his mouth shut. Fascinating. You murmur in a good natured fashion and drape yourself across his desk, “I’m afraid this business has to do with your family, though.”

Your eyes settle on the picture of his wife. He notices. You notice his noticing, even as you pluck the photo up and smile, “Ah, she’s beautiful,” you point on the glass, “Really. I can see where your son gets it from.”

For a moment, Mr. Park seems to shift with pride. Your smile is as sharp as the shattered glass under your finger, though, and you specify, “The son you hate. Jake.”

You do set the photo down, glass littering the desk top, and Mr. Park doesn’t look happy, but, really, when is he ever. 

“He is not my son-“

You laugh. Laugh! The sound is deep and rich and hearty, and then, just as suddenly, you cut it off, and whip around, face an inch from his own. 

“Really now?”

You’ve climbed fully onto the desk, and you’re perched like an owl, tilting your head. He is a man made of steel, and he doesn’t even shift. Not even as you smile, teeth all sharp and jagged just for the horrifying visage. Nothing.

So you sigh.

“Really now. Now that’s a shame. I was told- and don’t ask by _who_\- that Jake’s father would want to know about this.”

You’ve got his attention. You’re holding the knife in your hands, and you raise an eyebrow as you slyly crumble the entire thing up like a wrapper, and then plink it to the ground.

“About what?” he sounds a little curious. Cautious. Frightened. You hum and exhale and then you’re on the floor, on your back, lazily looking up at the ceiling.

“About Jake, of course,” you drawl. You sniff in a disgusted sort of way and wipe away a trickle of blood, rolling your eyes, “That he’s alive.”

Mr. Park isn’t very fun. He takes the bait, but he’s not even biting, just tearing through it, “What do you know of him?!”

Aw, how cute. You coo and your hair ripples like water, and then, a chuckle. What an odd word. Like quip- who quips? No one normal. You’re decidedly not normal, though, so you quip, “I suppose I know him quite well-“

“Answer me!”

Your hands dig grooves into the wood, and then you’re whispering, smoke streaming from your mouth and fire in your eyes, “What did I say about interrupting?”

It is a testament to his will that he barely flinches. He doesn’t back down, either- you’d expected him to babble excuses and apologies. How _fascinating._ This must be where Jake gets it from.

“As I was saying!” you lean back. You scratch your chin and then you snap your fingers with a noise of ‘aha’, and the room grows considerably darker. Much darker. No sunlight, no moon, just pure darkness and nothing else. Mr. Park looks scared. You relish it, “He’s alive, you know.” 

“Impossible.”

“No. He’s alive, and he...” you pause. You consider your words, “Oh, Mr. Park. He is suffering beyond compare.”

The lamp on Mr. Park’s desk suddenly turns on. You put your hands in front of it, making shadow puppets on the wall. Far too intricate to be real, but, there they are. Jake toddles across frame. You laugh and make him wave. Then your laugh turns cruel as the Entity comes down and brutally, bloodily murders him. And then the Trapper. And the Wraith. You’re just getting to the good part when Mr. Park’s voice shouts, almost cracks, “I said, enough!”

Just as suddenly, the light goes out. Pure darkness envelopes the room. He can’t see you, you can see him, and you drift around his form, your voice no longer your own, “Father. Father, please- don’t leave me. No! Please!”

Mr. Park may be made of steel, but you cut as obsidian, and even he is weak now. You hear his breath hitch. You’re standing in front of him now, your skin not your own, your voice stolen, and as you grapple with some unseen opponent, you’re staring right at Mr. Park. Your face is completely expressionless, at odds with your terrified voice, “No, no! Let me go! No!” 

“_Stop_,” Mr. Park whispers.

“Please!” your voice shatters like glass, the shadow in front of you turning into a vague distortion of the Shape, as he grabs you by the neck and slams you against a wall, and you’re sobbing, pleading, voice gradually choking off, “Please, help me- no-“

“Stop!” Mr. Park shouts. You just continue to stare right at him. The shadowy Shape holds you still, and your struggles have started to slow, and you’re still staring, eyes cold, mouth emotionless-

Mr. Park roars. He rushes forward and slams into the shadow that doesn’t exist, with all his might. The illusionary man disappears. You fall to the ground. You’re looking up at him blankly, taking in the tears, the frantic expression. Even he is fooled. Even he leans down and stares back at you, and that’s when you finally smile. 

“Ah. So you do care,” you whisper, and the entire illusion falls apart. The office returns. Your skin is your own. You’re standing in front of the desk, and he’s sitting, and you tilt your head with a smile. He looks shaken. Fear. Understanding.

“What have you _done to him?!_” he demands. He’s leaning over his own desk, all false decorum forgotten. You clasp your hands together and your eyes are glass.

“Not a single thing!” you cheer, then lean in too, “And that’s the problem, isn’t it? I didn’t do a single thing. Isn’t that funny? Neither did you.”

You wonder why he suddenly cares. You tilt your head at him, and then, a quiet breath, “Oh. Oh, Mr. Park,” you idly tidy up his desk, fix his tie, murmur, “You’re pitiful.”

He wants to throw you out a window. But he can’t even move. You’ve turned him to stone, and then you pat his head, step back, admire the statue. Heart of ice. Face of stone. You flutter around uncertainly, before finally caving and taking his hand. As he stands up, the stone falls away. He looks young again. You twirl him around the room. A ballroom! The marble clicks underfoot, and there must be a hundred other guests. You lean down and whisper, “To be conditionally loved is the loneliest death of all. Your life is not your own to live. How tragic. How sad.”

You spin him again. The scene changes. It’s a bakery, it’s beautiful, he’s wearing an apron and there’s flour and you’re both laughing.

“Isn’t this fun?” you ask.

“Oh, yes,” he replies, baritone chuckle, “I can’t remember the last time we danced like this.”

“Hours, at least,” you assure, “Are you happy?”

“Yes. Yes,” he assures. He’s so happy that he chose to become a baker. Even though his parents didn’t approve- at all- he is happy. So, so happy.

You smile in a bitter way, and one final twirl, and everything falls apart. The scene returns to normal. Mr. Park is sitting at his desk, and there’s no flour on his hands or face. You smell like a bakery still. How sad.

“How... how dare you,” he hisses. He looks angry and cornered. You wonder when the last time he thought about his dream was. A lifetime, at least. 

“You’re pathetic,” you whisper, “You do love him. You just want what’s best for him, and only what’s best. He’s not happy. He’ll never be happy. You’ll never be happy. What’s the point? You might as well have killed him yourself.”

“Get out of my office. Now!” Mr. Park demands. You smile. 

“You can save him, you know,” you know he’s pressed the buzzer to summon security already. You just shake your head, “Honest. You just have to do two things. First,” you hold out your hand, “Look in the woods not too far from here,” the map falls onto the desk. He’s still glaring at you, and you give him that same, sardonic smile, “And second: stop being so... _pitiful_. Really. It’s that simple.”

The doors behind you slam open. Security! How fun. You laugh and then to them, and shout over your shoulder, “Goodbye, Mr. Park! It’s been a pleasure,” and snap your fingers, and then you disappear in a swirl of mist and light.

Moments pass. Two, six, fourteen. Security sweeps the area with a frantic sort of motion. And yet, Mr. Park can only stare at the thing that’s been left on his desk. Folded into the map, it seems, you’ve left one final gift: a photo of a bakery that never existed. A smiling man with flour on his face, and his equally happy wife and son.

There never was and will never be.

He sets the photo down, and as Mr. Park is a man of steel, he doesn’t cry.

Honest.


	2. Friends Help Friends (Ghostface, Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Sidney, Billy, Stu, Reader
> 
> Ships: Ghostface/Reader
> 
> Mildly NSFW

The house was silent. Deadly silence. Everyone had left Stu’s party, everyone but few, and one of those unfortunate people was you. You, and Sidney. An inhale, and an exhale, as you both hid and tried to catch your breath. That person- Ghostface, they were here. He was here. And he was... Sidney woulnd’t make it out. 

You had to buy her time. And maybe, well, maybe your idea of helping would be a little different than what she’d expect.

“Stay there,” you whispered. Sid looked terrified. Some of that blood on her had to be your own, or maybe you were overreacting to the stab wound. It didn’t matter. You stood up, glanced back at her, gave her a thumbs up, then quickly hurried away.

And once you were out of sight of her, you took your shirt off.

“This is a great plan,” you mumbled in a slightly confident voice to yourself. Cleared your throat. wow, it was a little cold in here. Still, you had to do this. For <del>yourself</del> Sidney. Yes, for Sid. Even though you kind of hated her at school, hey, you’d help her out, because you were a good person, and sometimes that meant doing what you had to do.

Such as being shirtless.

And actively searching for Ghostface.

Minutes. Or maybe only one. You walked upstairs, caught sight of something slinking in the shadows, and your face shifted like a lion slowly prowling through the savanah. Moving softly. Quietly. Exactly like a lion, yes. Technically lions were topless all the time if one thought about it.

The shadow of black fabric shifted. You silently closed the door behind yourself. 

The person shifted. The mask turned to you.

And your smile was like the forth of July.

“Hey,” you drawled. You tried to mix your stance a little, confident but just a little vulnerable and, well, your tits were out so, that was something. It was hard to tell, but you thought Ghostface’s mask was tilted just a little downward. 

And he didn’t reply. But he also didn’t move to stab you. A plus, for sure, as you inhaled again and moved forward a few steps.

“Where’s your friend?” You asked. That got a reaction. He jolted back a little, and then you laughed, but it was just teasing, “I know there’s two of you. So where...”

You paused. There was something on your neck now, hot air. Oh, a breath. 

“Right behind you,” a voice whispered. 

A part of your mind whispered, _this is the stupidest plan you’ve ever had_.

‘Oh, shut up,’ you mentally shoved it away, ‘I’m doing this for Sid.”

_You’re doing this for that di-_

You burnt that thought in a fire and proceeded to ignore it entirely. Back to the present. A pair of arms were wrapped around your torso now, but you still managed a winning smile as the other Ghostface drew closer. Oh, if you pulled this off, the press would probably call you a tragic hero, saved her friends at a terrible cost. But as both of these slashers pressed against you, warm against your skin, that slight possibility of you dying- honestly, what more could a girl want?

And as you dropped to your knees with a slightly lecherous, not safe for catholic school grin, ‘doing this for sidney’ was honestly the last thing on your mind. But no one else had to know that.


	3. Run Boy Run (Jake Park, Steve Harrington)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Jake, Steve, Trapper
> 
> Ships: None
> 
> SFW

Breathe. In, out. Blood trickled down Jake's forehead, down his nose, dripping from his mouth onto the cold ground. Pain was in every movement of his body, from the shaking of his hands to each straining breath in his lungs.

In, out.

They were so close. He could barely believe it- after two of the others died within minutes, Jake and Steve had managed to survive. And now the exit gate was right there, so close. But, waiting. Jake had to wait. Had to. It was almost open, but not enough. The Trapper would kill them both if Jake made a run for it now.

That's why he was standing on top of this hill. Waiting. Waiting, watching. In the distance, he saw the Trapper walk closer.

Closer. 

In, out. The blood was copper and agony, telling a story in every slash across his chest, every splatter staining his hands. Still, Jake didn't move. So close, but not yet. He inhaled another shuddering, crackling breath, could feel his heartbeat hammering in his ears now, the sound of heavy boots in the wet ground. 

The Trapper promised murder with every step. And he was only a few feet away now, so close, too close. Jake inhaled sharply-

And threw himself from the hill. Feet met dirt. Contact. And then he was sprinting, running as fast as he could, the rain flying and the adrenline flowing and his eyes wide as he ran. To the exit gate. For one single, shining, horrifying moment, he didn't think it was open. That he was too early and now they would both die.

But then he heard that rusty click, saw it open, saw Steve running through and Jake pushed every last bit of himself into making that last bit of distance. Inches. Steve went through first, because Jake wouldn't have it any other way, and then-

Barely. Just barely, Jake made it too.

And as they both ran out, Leaning against each other, Jake couldn't help the smile.


	4. Bro... Gamer Fuel (Jake Park, Steve Harrington)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Jake Park, Steve Harrington, The Legion (Susie)
> 
> Ships: Jake Park/Steve Harrington
> 
> SFW

Every trial. Every time they spawned together, or found each other in a stressful situation. Every single time, they’d gotten into this... weird habit. Definitely weird. But they just _kept doing it_. 

Started off as a joke. Steve had been the one to bring it up. 

“Bro,” he laughed, “It would be really funny if we kissed.”

And Jake had just nodded because, yeah, Steve and him were best friends, it would be.

And then they both forgot about it. For a few Trials. Until Steve brought it up again. 

“Bro, what if we kissed for gamer fuel?” Steve wiggles his eyebrows, in some ultimate form of gay chicken as he pressed towards Jake, pulled back at the last second with a, “haha, just kidding bro-“ a pause to stare really hard at Jake, “Unless...”

Jake threw a pebble at Steve. And that brought the Killer right to them, but it was worth it.

More Trials, but Jake hadn’t forgotten this time, and as they were cornered, waiting for the Killer (The Legion, this time) to leave them alone, Jake turned to Steve, whisper quiet. They were both honestly terrified, and Jake had to say something, anything, so he said-

“Hey, bro,” Jake’s voice was barely even present, slightly scratchy, tilted with just a hint of uncertainty, the words coming out before he could stop them, “I need some gamer fuel.”

For a moment, nothing. Steve just blinked. But then his smile went super wide and he laughed, way too loud, but he didn’t even seem to notice as he suddenly leaned in to Jake and replied, “Gamer fuel, bro,” and-

Then they were kissing.

Wow. They were kissing for a pretty long time actually. 

A really, long time.

A twig cracked. Both boys abruptly opened their eyes. Looked over to the shadow looming over both of them. The Legion seemed to stare for a moment, shifting on her feet, hands awkwardly fiddling in front of herself. There was a moment of silence. Two. Slowly, she backed away, as if pretending she hadn’t seen anything.

And then she was gone.

So Steve just turned right back to Jake and said, “Do you need more gamer fuel, bro?”

Jake threw another pebble at him. 

But not before stealing some more gamer fuel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all based off a dumb joke that my friend and I do whenever we see each other in dbd. It’s so stupid but so so funny
> 
> Just, seeing him tear across the map, towards me, screaming, “BRO I NEED SOME GAMER FUEL.”


	5. After it All (Jake Park, Steve Harrington)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Jake Park, Steve Harrington
> 
> Ships: Implied Jake Park/Steve Harrington
> 
> SFW

Jake’s dying. Steve knows this, just like he knows that Jake will eventually come back, and that they’ll eventually end up right here in this same situation again.

But Jake’s dying. And it hurts- it always hurts. It’s always the same, and maybe it’s always going to be like this, this horrible feeling in Steve’s chest. Sinking like ice and freezing every part of his body, causing him to squeeze his friend tighter and try not to shake.

Jake is in Steve’s arms, because that’s the least he can do, or maybe it’s really the only thing he can do. Hold Jake close, despite the blood that’s spilling out- onto Steve, onto the ground, draining away into nothing. The wound that’s too fatal to close. Jake is shivering. He’s cold. Steve just holds him tighter. It’s never enough.

“Jake,” Steve whispers, voice cracking like a prayer, “Y- y’know, when we get out. I know the first thing we’ll do.”

That has Jake’s attention now. Anything to take his mind off the fact that he’s dying. Steve continues, voice a rumble, face in Jake’s neck, his lips dried but warm on Jake’s so cold skin, “We’ll go get some milkshakes. Just the two of us. And I’ll- you can get one. Whatever kind you want, I don’t mind.”

Jake shifts, with what might be laughter, or it might be him choking on his own blood. Steve still holds him, and still talks and talks, talks about the milkshakes and warm summer afternoons and, everything. Everything under the sun. Of happy days and holding hands and what once was and never again will be.

And eventually, Jake stops shaking. Like always. Goes limp, goes slack, the life fading from his eyes as he simply... dies. And then, that just leaves Steve sitting there, holding the empty and gone corpse of his best friend. Steve tries to rationalize that, at least Jake didn’t die alone. But it doesn’t help. It never does.

That’s alright. At least now, Jake doesn’t have to see Steve crying too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A snippet that didn’t make the cut of [ Milkshake Mayhem ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21055994) on account of it being too angsty for the fic


	6. Little Lark (Jake Park, Michael Myers)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Jake Park, Michael Myers
> 
> Ships: Jake Park/Michael Myers
> 
> SFW

There were hardly any sounds, in these places. Jake’s breathing, yes, but not much else, other than the gentle chug of the generator that would never be finished, or the sound of twigs snapping underfoot. Jake winced once as he slowed his run to a limping crawl, holding his breath as he tried to wedge into a corner and make himself small. No sounds now. Not even breathing. Not even crows.

_ Crunch._ Jake suddenly flinched, unable to help himself and barely able to muffle his own cry, as the Entity snapped bone and tore sinew and ate all of Dwight whole. Not even a body, just a shadow, a shell, into the empty sky. And then, silence again, and Jake was alone. Completely alone, in all the worst ways, because the Killer wasn't a person and the Killer wasn't going to rest until he was ripped into pieces.

A crow. Jake’s head swiveled, and he pushed himself out of the corner, feet nearly silent on the ground. Every ounce of his attention was focused now on finding the Hatch. But that meant, he almost missed the other sound. The new sound. The...

The singing.

Singing. The Killer was singing. Jake froze despite himself, and then he realized how close they were, and on instinct, he started to sprint. Too late to stop. The singing was getting louder, and it wasn't singing like he'd heard before, no- it was something else. Oh god, no, it was- it was- 

"_Alouette, gentille alouette_," Myers sang. His voice was musical in all the wrong ways, and it swayed with the breeze, "_Alouette, je te plumerai._"

Jake had never heard the man speak before. He’d never heard any of the Killers speak before, but here he was, running for his life, the masked murderer singing a song from his childhood. It almost made Jake want to laugh, in a hysterical way, as he vaulted a window and pushed himself to be faster. Jake’s breathing was short and rapid and frantic, a raven flying from a hawk, never fast enough, the sound of twigs crunching and the song drifting closer, ever closer, more lyrics now, “_Je te plumerai la tête,_” and- Jake looked back at the worst possible minute, looked into the Shape’s eyes. Eyes that were suddenly warm, in a corrupted way, in a way that didn't make sense because then he swung his knife _down_ and Jake let out a scream as he went down with it. 

The dirt was cold underneath him, like graveyard soil, and Jake flipped onto his back just in time to look up at Myers reaching down. More of the song from the mask, “_Alouette, gentille alouette, alouette-_” and Jake could taste the irony in the lyrics, plucking the feathers from a lark, as Michael held Jake up by the neck and rose his blade up and-

“_Je te plumerai._”

_Squelch_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired entirely by me randomly singing as I hunted down this poor Jake, and imagining how horrifying


	7. Emotions (The Entity, Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: The Entity, Reader, Jake Park, Michael Myers 
> 
> Ships: Reader/Michael Myers
> 
> SFW

The Entity looked to the new Survivor, as they worked on a generator. So odd. Strange. Too much knowledge of this place, and yet none at all. Like they were plucked from out of time, knew just enough to be afraid of what they saw, and enough to sometimes feel no fear at all. A fascainting cocktail of emotions that swirled just below the surface of their mind. The Entity’s spider-like tendril snaked out, pushing through the fabric of the world ever so slightly, just to taste the emotions.

Fear was the most present. Fear, which was acrid, like the most bitter chocolate but that ever hint of sweetness with it, if one knew where to look. Enjoyable, when paired with most things. Disgust- milk that had gone sickly sour, just sweet enough. Disgust, it seemed, directed entirely to the gore that had splattered onto Jake. Jake didn’t seem to mind at all. The new Survivor minded just enough.

Anger was crunchy but palatable in a way that the Entity enjoyed, especially with rage, a citrus flavor mixed with delectable spices. Left a tingling feeling when it went away. And under all of that, there was hope. Hope had no taste at all, but that was what made it all the more desireable, like a frigid gulp of pure water, washing everything else away when it became too much. Yes, the Entity loved hope, and this new survivor had it in droves. The new ones always did. The Entity inhaled, in so much that it could, inhaling greedily and deeply. Hope for escape, fear for the safety of them and their friends, anger at injustice, and- 

And- wait. Something else. The Survivor turned their head, looking at something in the fog, seeing something they shouldn’t have been able to, some of that knowledge they shouldn’t have held but did. The Entity focused as well, sensing the Shape stalking towards Jake and the new Survivor. But that wasn’t it. The emotion was coming from the new Survivor, and the Entity pressed in more, and tasted...

_Something like static mixed with grape._

The Entity paused. If it had eyes, it would have blinked. And in its own strange way, without a mouth, it whispered, “_Tightly concealed lust?_”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Entity is drinking some crisp ass water then just gets hit by fucking  
LACROIX


	8. Game, Set, Match (The Pig)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: The Pig, unnamed survivors 
> 
> Ships: none
> 
> SFW

Amanda laughed under her breath, slowly moving forward. The last two Survivors were cornered now, traps on their heads, no hope of escaping. Yes, and she could hear them crying too- trying uselessly to paw the traps off, probably. They’d die just like the others. They deserved to die. Anyone who was weak would be dealt with, and those that survived would be stronger. These two would learn- the hard way, from the sounds of it.

The sounds grew louder. Amanda smiled in a vicious way, hidden behind her mask, and drew her weapon out slowly. The survivors were shouting, it sounded like. Screaming. Panicking. That meant it was almost time. But maybe she’d speed it up a little, she decided, and so Amanda rounded the corner and prepared to attack-

...

“What,” she managed.

They were- spinning. The two survivors were spinning. Well, one was spinning. The one without the flashlight. They didn’t have traps on their heads either, not anymore, which meant they’d somehow gotten them off in time but- then _why were they shouting_. They were both screaming, and Amanda tuned in for a moment to try and make sense of what exactly they were saying, because now she was just confused and maybe a little frustrated too.

“Fuck you! Fuck your flashlight!” one was shouting. They were the shorter one, bruises on their face. They also didn’t have the flashlight. A flashlight that was being shone directly into their face, periodically. 

“You hit me with a pallet!” The one with the flashlight yelled back. Clicking it rapidly. They kept spinning, it seemed, to try and shine the flashlight into their friend’s face. Who was spinning to avoid it.

“You deserved it!” the shorter one shouted.

“Did I?!”

“MAYBE!”

“WELL, YOU SUCK.”

They weren’t sobbing. Yes, they were technically screaming, but not in the right way. They almost didn’t seem to care at all. _Now_, Amanda growled under her breath. She was angry; she rose up her weapon to lunge-

“FUCK YOU!” 

_Clunk_

The flashlight was thrown directly at Amanda’s face.

Both survivors blinked.

“Run?” The smaller one asked.

“Yerp,” said the other one, already running away.

Amanda roared.


	9. Doctor, Doctor, Gimme the News (Doctor, OC)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: The Doctor, the Silence, the Surface 
> 
> Ships: none
> 
> SFW
> 
> Two original Killer characters, for a friend

Surface sniffed. They sniffed the air, and they padded around once, twice. The dirt was still soft. It had not had time to harden. It was cold but the layers had warmth. 

The breeze said things. It said that Silence had been gone since Long breaths. Since time- Surface did not know time, but inhales were measures, and Silence had been gone for many. The soil said these things too. Surface had dug their claws into the ground and waited in that emptiness for Long, and the earth whispered where Silence had gone to.

And now Surface was going. Their bones snapped with every movement. Surface was not Well- not Well with movement and time, very hard. It was hard. It hurt. Surface did not hurt anymore, but it hurt nonetheless.

But they still went. Crawled across the ground to find their friend. The friend that tasted like- the word was gone. Brief flashes of colorful and small things, eaten. Sweet. Gone now. Surface sniffed the air and turned left, the Fog parting and shifting around dead eyes. Surface tried calling out.

“_RoAaAAAUOOOOOuuuhHH,_” they screeched. The sound was dry like trees falling apart, and it ended with clicking and croaking. Silence did not respond. Surface continued forward.

Where was their friend? 

Surface went-

COLD

-Jolted. Cold. Cold on their face and then gone. Cold under their hands. In the dirt. Cold. Surface clicked and gurgled and scrambled low to the ground, fast now, snap snap snap, try to get away. Wasn’t fast enough. What was this? It was awful. Surface followed the smell into Warm and then the cold-wet was gone. Just cold cold now. Cold air, cold floor. Surface tilted their head back and forth.

They did not like this place. 

“_UAaihh_,” small hiss small bark. Nothing came from the shadows. Bad still. The air tasted bad. Tasted like bad thought. Surface slowly climbed up one wall, then into the air vent, sliding through the small space with more bone cracking and limb snapping. Comfortable hole. 

Surface crawled. Silent. They did not make any noise. Not even their usual clicking gurgles, and they sniffed the air for many breaths and then stopped suddenly. They wanted to scream and yell but the Remembering said not to. To wait.

But Silence was below; right below. Surface could smell him. He smelled Fear. Surface did not like that at all, and that was bad. They looked through the vent bottom and saw a big room and a small room. The small room was very-

Word was gone.

Brown. 

And Silence was sitting in it. And he was not moving, which was bad. He was moving- he was- tremble. The grave shakes. And someone else was in the big room, who tasted like a storm turned sour. He was very tall. He was giggling. Surface liked giggles but only when [blue cold woman] Spirit did them and [tall good smell man] David. 

Who was this man? Surface tried to remember. That was very hard. They thought for breaths, and then remembered what [tallest strange smell good man] Trapper had said. The Doctor. Surface nickered: they did not like doctors. This was a bad doctor. 

So Surface did what good was done. Surface let out a very, very loud shriek. It sounded like, “_AAaUUuOooIIIIAAAAAAH._” Which sounded like digging claws into claws and pulling down. The Doctor smell changed. Surface landed on the ground and rose up very threateningly. The Doctor did not try to walk forward. Surface settled back. 

Good.

Surface walked to the small room and saw the door. It was a very strange door, so Surface dug a claw into it and then pulled. The door was dragged into the dirt and died. Sound rushed in. Silence looked up.

Quiet now. Surface clicked and gurgled and padded forward, then behind Silence. Stuck their head against his back. Move time. Urgent. Go. Silence stood up and began to walk, Surface behind. Watching the Doctor. He smelled like lightning at sea now. It made Surface sneeze. He looked happy, and in bad ways.

Surface hissed at him and left.

Surface did not like doctors.


	10. Attractions of Youth (Trapper, Jake)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Evan MacMillan | The Trapper, Jake Park
> 
> Ships: Evan MacMillan | The Trapper/Jake Park
> 
> SFW

The Entity was hungry. Everyone knew that. And everyone knew that if the Entity wasn’t satisfied, you would suffer- Survivor and Killer alike.

It was... not a good trial. Not for the Survivors, Jake thought. Today, the Entity was more ravenous than usual, and windows blocked quicker and pallets were few and far between. Even the hooks seemed faster. It meant that, most of the others were dead. Claudette had died screaming on the basement hook, and Dwight had been moried, and Meg-

_CRUNCH_

Now she was gone too.

Leaving Jake alone.

The generator was a dull rumble, but Jake stepped away, breathing shallow, eyes looking through the Fog. He had to find the Hatch before the Trapper did. He had to escape. The Entity was starving, but maybe three Survivors had been enough and now it was full. 

Maybe.

Jake’s movements were whisper quiet. His own breathing was masked by the slightest sound of an unknown breeze. He had his eyes on the ground, looking for any sign of a trap, and- well. Maybe he should’ve been looking up.

He heard the heartbeat too late. It had been softer this Trial to begin with, something that made the terror radius smaller, less noticeable; deadlier. And as Jake looked up, he saw the Trapper, stalking towards him.

Still, Jake made an effort. He scrambled to get away, he ran across the dirt, and he didn’t even scream that much when the Trapper finally caught up. Cornered him. Jake’s glare was defiant and only a little terrified. He swallowed thickly, and waited for the blade to end it.

And waited.

But the Trapper didn’t. No, he just stared right at Jake, eyes muddled by shadow. The Killer reached forward- and Jake flinched- but there was no pain, only a somewhat rough hand closing around Jake’s wrist. Calloused, bloody fingers clamped tightly, but not enough to bruise. Jake blinked. Opened his mouth to speak, and found no words to say. The Trapper grunted something, and began to tug Jake along, walking towards some unknown destination.

So Jake followed. 

The Hatch sounded like salvation. The sound of it was relief distilled and hope, too, all together. The Killer released Jake’s wrist and then half nudged half shoved him towards it. Jake turned around one last time as he prepared to jump, and his face was still confused, but there was a smile now. 

“Thank you.”

Evan watched the boy leave, and remembered someone from long ago. With dark hair and warm eyes, and a smile just like that, and a warmth in Evan’s chest that almost aches. A friend from the mines. From Before. 

It didn’t matter anymore. 

But, still, Evan watched Jake go, and that old flame in his heart from all those years ago still burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yknow I liked this enough that I might continue it with a larger fic. Maybe
> 
> Edit: I did. You can find it [here ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21489811/chapters/51215815).


	11. A Different Type of Nightmare (Steve, Freddy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Steve Harrington, Freddy Krueger | The Nightmare
> 
> Ships: none
> 
> SFW

The air at Crotus Prenn always smelled like ash. During a good trial (with 'good' being subjective), the cold air barely carried the scent of embers and death. On a bad trial, it was overwhelming- choking airways, suffocating, smothering. Thankfully for Steve, today was a good trial. A very good trial. Each frigid breath was met with barely a grimace, and if he closed his eyes, maybe he could pretend he was back at Hawkins, late at night, not here- wherever here was. 

Suddenly, Steve sneezed. A bit of ash drifted away from his nose, and he looked up to the suddenly gray sky, realizing what had happened. Or, rather who: Freddy. The Nightmare was here. Steve's face turned from wistful to a grimace, and he held his breath, the taste of ash stuck in his mouth now, even if it wasn't carried by the breeze. Quentin had talked about Freddy before, and- and, nothing good. Nothing that Steve wanted to even try to remember, the thoughts scalding in all the worst ways, that it had happened at all- that it had happened to his good friend, too. But then, Steve's grimace turned to something like rage. Oh, he'd heard about Freddy all right. He'd heard _enough_.

So Steve decided, right then and there, that he would _not_ be dying to Freddy. Not in this trial, not today, and not until he gave that asshole what he deserved. For Quentin.

And, it certainly helped that, for whatever reason, the Entity had decided to put four Steves into one Trial. Four Steves plucked from differed times, but still, four Steves.

They worked together, nearly as one. The first Steve, the one who looked like he'd just been brought here, he was a distraction. Freddy would charge after him, only to be stopped by another Steve, the one with the glasses and gloves, dangerous smile. He'd drop down with a flashlight, swinging in the Killer's face, earning curses and threats. A claw would swing, then miss, as the bloody Steve took the hit and then darted off, laughing despite the blood in his mouth. The almost gurgle, red blood against black ash from above, as the final Steve with the Scoops uniform wrapped layers of gauze around the wound. Together, they worked together. And together, they taunted, heckled, and won.

It was a good victory, too.

The four of them stood at the exit gate. Two of them had flashlights now, flickering them and laughing. Steve- that is, the original Steve, the one who was bruised and battered but viciously triumphant- let his eyes drift over to the opening of the gate. To the fog, where Freddy stood; only watching. He couldn't even do anything else. Steve's smile was bloodthirsty.

"Hey, you asshole!" he called, and there was the sound of laughter, all of the Steves now, the two with the flashlights flaring them. Freddy snarled, and stalked forward. Raised weapon, infuriated eyes. A face like a burnt chicken tender. Maybe he was mad that he had been mocked, and taunted, and everything under the sun. Like it wasn't 'fair'. Or just, or good manners, or whatever the fuck. One by one, the other Steves left, leaving only the original to remain. Steve took one step towards the exit, as Freddy suddenly rushed the last bit of distance- too late. Steve stepped away at the last second. He could feel the fog at his back, the call of the campfire with his friends, and he shouted one last time.

"Suck it, sweater bitch!"

It was a good trial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a true story with true Steves and one truly unfortunate Freddy


	12. The It-Thing, Zombies (Surface, Wraith)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: the Wraith, The Surface, Killer OCs, Dwight
> 
> Ships: none
> 
> SFW

Surface is the one to notice, at first.

Surface does many things, in their spare time. Walking around, the slow crack crack crack of their bones snapping in new and unnew ways. Sniffing the air. Looking for Warm. It is how Surface first met Bad Large Cough Man (“The Clown,” Silence had called him, with weary breaths) and it was how Surface had accidentally Tasted the strange Orange Glow Flower that sprouted once and then never again- tasted like Dirt and Fire, Surface remembers, and it burned their veins and even now makes their skin itchy itchy with remembering. 

Surface stalks. Stalks something in the shadow and fog. Their nose is twitching, and there is a very Bad scent in the air. It smells like hurting. It smells like dark, cold spaces, and rot. Surface plods through the shadows and mist, and wants to ask, “What is?” But there are no words for What Is, only sounds, and Surface is suddenly and deeply too afraid for even the sounds. 

So Surface stalks.

Something in the air tastes like fear. In the air, in the crows and dust. The- the It, The It Without A Name. Is it afraid? Does it fear? Why? What? Bad things. Bad. Surface wants to call out for Tallest Good Smell Man (“Trapper!” one of the Survivors screamed) or Best Best Person (Silence. Surface remembers his name for ever) but. But if they come- what if the It-Thing finds them? The It-Thing, the source of the pain and danger smells, in the Fog. Bad. Surface feels something like Afraid, and that is like the ending of things. 

Closer now. Closer to the Scent, to the source. The air is vibrating now, like it wants to run away. It can’t. Surface trembles with it. Trembling tastes like copper and coal. The smell is sharp, and now it is like knives, too much, too hurting, like crying and salt and clay. Surface skitters and their bones snap snap snap, and they want to run away and climb and hide from this It-Thing, So Badly.

But finally, the Fog clears.

There is something standing in the clearing. Surface can see them- but better, Surface can smell them. They are the scent. They are the pain hurt grave soil chanting. They stand too tall and hunched over, the It-Thing, and they make a noise like glass being thrown up. Surface freezes in place. Long forgotten instinct tells them not to move. Quiet. Quiet. Predator is here. Shh.

The It-Thing glances up. Surface is very, very still, and so- and so, Surface sees.

The It-Thing is Wraith.

Wraith. Wraith, Cold Tall Tall Tree Man. No smell, smells like wind. Smells like how ghosts feel. Surface sees him moving but he moves Wrong. He moves heavy, and slow. Stumbles. Steps away from something on the ground, something red. Surface claws in the soil can taste blood. There is gore and gut and flesh rendered, and Surface sees it on Wraith. Sees it drip. Mouth place. Food. Eaten. The Thing on the ground- Dwight, small fear man, Dwight. Wraith has killed him. Wraith has Done Something to him. Made him into red. 

Surface wants to ask. Trapper always says to ask things. Use words. Speak. Speaking is impossible- very, very hard. Now is not the time for words. Surface opens their mouth to scream the question sounds, until-

Sniffs.

The It-Thing is not Wraith. Surface smells this now. It is Wraith but not, but wrong. No more smell of ghost. Only hunger-pain-cold-need. Only red. Surface closes their mouth, legs slowly backing away, something burrowing in their chest like Fear. The It-Thing is not Wraith and the It-Thing is Hungry and Wrong and the It-Thing has Eaten Dwight.

From the ground, Dwight too stands up. He staggers. He opens his mouth and makes a groan like a window pane falling to it death. Surface turns, and-

Flees. Bones snap snap snap. Surface goes into the Fog, where the very air is still trembling, and as soon as the smell of the It-Things have gone far enough, Surface screams as loud as they can. 

They are the first to notice. 

And it is already to late to stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A snippet for the ever fun, never to be fully written, “what if there was Zombies in dbd”
> 
> I do love the idea of it


	13. Exit This World (Bill, Jake, Michael Myers)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bill, Jake, the Shape
> 
> Ships: none
> 
> SFW

Jake could barely remember how it started. He could, with some effort, recall that Nea was on the hook- that he and Bill had gone in to save her, and…

And Myers. Jake could remember that clearly. 

One stab across the torso, and here Jake was, at the Exit, clutching his side and stifling groans of pain as best he could. He couldn’t leave, though. Not until Bill got back. Not until he was certain his friend was safe. So Jake held his bleeding side, the blood slipping through his fingers, and watched. A moment passed. Two. At the three, Jake wondered if Bill had failed-

Only to see him run through the Exit; wounded, but safe. And Jake’s smile was fracturing at the edges, but so relieved, and he managed a shaky exhale of a laugh at the sight of the old man.

“Bill! You son of a bitch,” and then Jake was wheezing, feeling needles stabbing at his lungs. He coughed, and was only slightly surprised that there wasn’t any blood in his palm from it. Bill looked at the younger and just shook his head.

“Come’ere, kid, here we go, let’s get you patched up.”

“Did you save her?”

Bill scoffed, “Unfortunately. Idiot, always messin’ with the Killer,” and Bill’s hands were careful as he wrapped stained gauze around Jake’s side, using up whatever was left in his medical kit. But even Bill couldn’t hide his racking cough, or the way his hands were shaking from pain. Jake looked up to say something, something reassuring or, just something, but then-

Then he saw Myers. And he had his knife raised up, catching the red light of the Exit Gate and looking all the more gruesome for it, an intensity in his eyes that made Jake freeze. He tried to push Bill off, tried to tell him to run, but it didn’t matter. Wasn’t fast enough. There was the swing of the knife, and Bill’s wounded roar, and Jake realized he was screaming too. Bill wasn’t close enough to the Exit. He wouldn’t make it. He’d die. No, no- not again. He’d always been the one to die for Jake, and now, Jake wouldn’t let it happen again. So the boy stood up as best he could, and charged at the Killer, ramming into Michael’s torso- not shoving him back, but he couldn’t move forward, either. A standstill. One swipe of his blade and Jake would be dead, but for some reason, Myers didn’t. He just stared intensely at Jake, almost like he was confused. 

“Get out of here! Bill!” Jake yelled and his voice crackled and a hundred other thoughts warred in his head, all ignored. Not again. Not when he was so close. And Bill, inch by determined inch, crawled the arm’s length to the foggy exit, and then… disappeared.

Myers rose his knife up in rage, realizing what had happened, his prey gone, but Jake only gave a bloodied smile, and laughed in a whisper, “I win.”


	14. The Beetle-Game (Surface, Trapper)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: The Surface, The Trapper, the Wraith
> 
> Ships: none
> 
> SFW
> 
> Zombie AU, Part 2

Surface plays the beetle-game. They are very good at it. It’s when you- curl up small, _quiet quiet_. So small. Hide in a very dark, small space, like dying. Hold your breath. Don’t blink. It’s the beetle-game, because Trapper had called it that once after Surface had asked what it was called and he made a face. He was not very good at it, but he said that Surface was the best.

Surface doesn’t like the beetle-game that much. 

Trapper had to leave. He said so. He said that he would be back soon, and he made Surface _promise_ to play the beetle-game if anyone came by. Anyone at all. Even David, and Surface did not understand that, but they nodded anyways.

Surface plays it now. And waits. The beetle-game is very specific; no shifting, no crying. If you cry, you lose. That is the rule. It’s the most important one, and Surface is very good at it. The waiting too. Waiting. 

A shadow passes over them. Not even a shadow, just a shimmer, just the sound of footsteps in invisible air. Breathy breeze of a whisper. Surface does not flinch when it comes close to their ear, even though they want to, because they are the best at the beetle-game, because Trapper said so, and so they are still and silent and they do not cry at all. Not even in the way that you can cry when no one is looking. Not even that. 

The breath is in their ear now. Too close. It sounds hungry, it sounds like crunching and groaning and hurt. It smells like something from the fog but all wrong. Surface is as quiet as a beetle, quiet, small, and so- the footsteps soon fade away. It feels like it takes forever. Like long breaths and soil falling, sliding away. There’s more sounds outside, far outside- crunch crunch, groan, moan, smack. It sounds like metal jaws snapping shut, from some great distance. Eventually, those too fade. And Surface is left alone.

They still don’t move an inch.

When Trapper comes back, he will see that they were the best at the beetle-game. And then he won’t ever leave again. He will be so happy he stays, and he won’t leave and the It-Things that stalk around won’t come near anymore and everything will be happy again. It will be just like old times, when Surface didn’t have to play the beetle-game and Trapper didn’t look so sad all the time.

Surface hopes Trapper comes back soon.


	15. Exhausted and Sick of it (Pig, the Entity)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Amanda Young | The Pig, the Entity
> 
> Ships: none
> 
> SFW
> 
> [this was a commission]

A sound like bones crunching. Tree limbs crashing down, embedding into the dirt, stripped bark leaving eerie white branches, like shards of bone. In another time that seems so far away now- in another life -Amanda would have shuddered. Now, all she could do was glance balefully at the scene, then walk forward.

She was tired.

Maybe not tired. That didn’t seem like the right word here, when exhausted worked better. It felt exhausting, just living. Not in the cowards way of it either, but in... in the way that every step just hurt. Amanda wouldn’t stop, though. Even as her bones ached and the scars on her arms burned and she wanted to scream.

How long had she been in here? It seemed like forever. It felt like it too, ages. Ages of nothing. Trying to remember made it feel like a dream, like the memories slip away between her fingers and become, lesser. 

It made her sick.

So- ages, maybe. Years. Or just hours. Whatever it had been, it was too long. And Amanda was sick and tired of it all.

And so she decided, to hell with it; she’d do it herself. She would leave this fucking place. She was _tired_ of being used, and this Entity was just another in a long and awful string of abusers, and Amanda was tired of it and more than that, she was angry. Rage. 

The bone-white branches gave way to blackened limbs and orange burns in the ground, and Amanda stopped.

“Hey!” she shouted. Waited. Listened to the trees shift and everything go quiet, all the crows watching her now, watching, waiting. 

«Leave» the wind whispered.

“Fuck you!” Amanda snarled in reply. Maybe the Entity found it amusing, or maybe it was aggravated, but whatever the reason, Black began to curl together. Bigger, bigger. A form. A Thing, but Amanda couldn’t put words to what, just that it was and it shouldn’t have existed.

And that it was the reason behind all of this.

Amanda Young was resourceful. What she couldn’t describe, she decided she didn’t need to. She leveled her gaze to it, then reeled a fist back, thought of every injustice and every agony and rage and sorrow, and-  
Punched.

The Entity fell back with a crack. Or, it folded in on itself, maybe. Something happened, something, maybe the punch was magic or something equally dumb. But it was suddenly quiet once more. Not a manufactured quiet, but a real one. 

“And I’m taking my friends with me,” Amanda spat. She turned around to find her friends (was that the word) before the Entity woke up again, so they could leave. So they could get away from this.

No more abusers. No more John. No more Entity. No more blaming herself. Amanda was exhausted and sick of it all. As she went forward, she promised herself that it would be different now.

She really missed the sun.


	16. Twitchy (Silence, Chad)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Chad Bates, the Silence, Jake, Claudette 
> 
> Ships: none
> 
> SFW

Killers are joined by Survivors. People that the Entity has taken too, around the same time, near the same place. Alike, sometimes, but usually incredibly different. Silence is no different, in that regard. And he was joined by someone... special, maybe.

His name was Chad. Chad Bates.

And Chad was not a very good Survivor.

It wasn’t his first Trial; that would be a different story, largely of sniveling fear, anger, abandonment. It would have, however, painted a clear picture of Chad: how he left his friend to die on the hook, how he fumbled a generator and made his teammate take the fall, how he laughed at the exit gate as he pointed to the Killer- despite all his allies being dead by his hand. 

But, that was not this story.

Chad had learned things, in this realm. He had learned, rather poignantly, of the flashlight. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that that was his favorite tool. While Claudette took a medkit or while Jake had a toolbox, Chad would always be first with his flashlight. He had, after all, learned things in this realm. Enough to be cocky and overconfident. Enough to revert back to his normal personality.

Chad was not a very pleasant person.

“That was a warning shot, you fuckin’ bitch,” Chad laughed at the exploded generator, his friends all scowling away from him. He didn’t seem to notice. “Let’s go, let’s goooo. Hurry up. God- you guys suck.”

The heartbeat grew louder. Silence appeared, stomping towards them, and the other Survivors ran away in surprise and fear. Not Chad. Chad skulked around a corner, watching his friends struggle to get away, feeling coolly superior. 

“Idiots,” he snorted. Claudette was a stupid nerd who couldn’t ever hold her own, it was no wonder Silence went for her first. Jake too- fucking idiot, taking a hit for her, not even having enough dignity to be quiet as he was hit. Whimpering like a little bitch. 

Silence turned around, somehow sensing that Chad was hiding. The Killer let go of Jake, dropping the saboteur to the ground with a full _thump_ and stomping towards Chad. Chad puffed up his chest and rose his flashlight. 

“Yeah! Come and chase me, you gay bitch!” Chad taunted, flickering the flashlight rapidly as he spun around and ran. Right into a tree. Silence slammed his fist into Chad’s back, and Chad barely managed to stumble forward into a run. Not crying at all, because that was for weak little pissy boys, like Jake or Steve.

And Chad had a trick up his sleeve. Something he had learned from David, watching him. Because David was too sensitive to even talk to Chad to teach him that way- so Chad had called him a dumbass for saving someone, so what? It was true. God, people were too sensitive now anyway. 

Silence was really close now. Chad could feel his own heartbeat roaring, which meant that the Killer would go for a swing any second now. Just needed to time this right-

There! A pause in the Killer’s footsteps. Chad barked a laugh and ducked forward with a dead hard.

And. And, nothing. 

He- he’d been tricked!

“You idiot!” Chad snarled, “You were supposed to swing!” 

Chad swore he heard a chuckle from under the helmet, as Silence swung a moment later. It connected. Bone snapping sound, Chad falling, cold dirt. Ugh. That actually kind of hurt. Only a little. Chad didn’t even scream as he was hooked- what, like anyone would say differently? They’d be wrong, and lying little cowards. 

He waited for a while. Getting angrier. His team was so stupid! Why wasn’t anyone coming to save him? Fucking dumbasses. Finally, Claudette ran in to save him, and Chad shoved her away the moment he was back on the ground.

“What took you so long?!” he demanded, “I don’t even care. Have fun losing, loser.”

Chad stalked off. Onto a generator, because he was the only productive member of this team. It was stupid slow work, the really tedious kind, and of course tiny dick Jake would be good at this stuff, but not Chad. It wasn’t anything like a car engine, like, at all. Which meant it was just stupid and wrong. 

Heartbeat- again?! Those idiot Survivors weren’t doing their job to keep the Killer distracted! Chad shoved off the gen, holding his flashlight up. Silence was almost here. But just like earlier, Chad had a secret weapon, just waiting to be deployed. A shard of metal he’d ripped from one of the junk stacks. What had that bitch Laurie called it- decisive strike? Yeah. That sounded right. Too wordy, but she looked like a virgin so, she probably had nothing better to do than read books or something dumb.

“Come and get me!” Chad taunted. Silence’s shoulders had an angry set to them, and the smoldering ground under his tread hissed with heat. He swung faster than Chad would’ve been able to dodge, and so Chad waited to be picked up, then...

Stabbed the fucker right in the back.

Boom! Free. Chad landed on his feet as Silence cursed, and because Chad was the best at this shit, he even flashlight blinded the dumbass. And clicked the flashlight a few times after, laughing. 

Shouldn’t have done that.

Silence listened to the sound of the flashlight clicking, tilting his head ever so slightly. And when he figured out exactly where Chad was, he whipped one of his chains from his wrist and coiled it around Chad’s neck, dragging him to the ground with a crunch. The Survivor grasped at the chain for a moment, breathless- grabbing it just enough to gasp a curse.

“You bitch- you weren’t supposed to use that, you were supposed to swing.”

Silence maintained a grim silence as he tightened the chain and began to drag Chad towards the basement. And, despite the basement being on the other end of the map, none of the other Survivors moved to stop him. After all, Chad said he was the best. So he would be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a true encounter. My friend was playing Plague, and this steamer said (almos) all of these things in pure anger. 
> 
> Note: I do not condone anything Chad says


	17. Flower Crowns (Silence, Surface)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: the Silence, the Surface, the Legion
> 
> Ships: none
> 
> SFW

Making flower crowns was hard. It needed a lot of attention, and focus, and every time Silence would try to make one he'd misplace a flower or rip some stems. It wouldn't ever look right, just- just wrong enough to be frustrating, but everyone would say, oh it’s so pretty, it’s so nice. 

So, Silence could make flower crowns. And he did, sometimes. It was the kinda life skill that he never really used, because really, when would anyone want one? Especially not now, in the- here. This wherever. And it wasn’t like Silence had flowers here anyway, so, it was whatever.

So. The moral of the story was that, Silence could make flower crowns. But didn’t. And that was that. 

Except for now.

The Legion- Susie. Susie had found some flowers (correction, Susie had stolen some flowers from Survivors) and brought them to Silence. For some reason. She brought some to a few other Killers too, actually, so maybe that was just something she was doing today. Silence didn’t know. He didn’t really have time to ask, in between coming down from whatever the fuck the Entity kept giving him and trying to stop the Doctor from doing something to him <del>again</del>.

Silence wasn’t sure what to do with the flowers at first. Like, it was just a handful of flowers; some were kind of moldy, and a few were crushed and, well. Yeah. Surface actually ate one. It was kind of gross. But now Surface was laying down and Silence was bored, so he was just staring at the flowers now.

There was- what, was that primrose? Pale yellow flowers. Some of them had stems, but some of them didn’t. They smelled kind of nice. Like springtime. Like sitting at home because you stayed home sick from school but you beg your mom to go play outside with your friends. Light and, innocent. Maybe a little like deodorant.

And beside the primrose was something Silence didn’t recognize at first. Ah- amaranth. Love lies bleeding, or whatever. They had long stems, all mostly intact, and only a few bursts of color here and there. Probably good for weaving. It didn’t have a nice smell, though. Kinda smelled like a musty basement. Tasted good, at least. Not that he would know.

“Primrose means, I can’t live without you,” Silence explained, even though Surface probably didn’t care. Or understand. They barely lifted their head up, but that was a pretty good level of activity for them, actually. Silence looked back down at the flowers he was weaving together, taking a strand of amaranth, “This one means hopelessness,” he added. Or immortality. Depending.

Listen, he had some weird hobbies as a kid, and the knowledge just kind of stuck.

The flower crown wasn’t that hard to make. It was kind of calming, just weaving the stems together. Even if it looked like shit. 

“Y’know, they could actually say different stuff,” Silence mumbled with a sort of drifting tone, “Depending. On what you combine it with.”

For example, amaranth and primrose together meant. Oh, maybe, I’m hopeless without you. Maybe I’m dead without you. Maybe we’re both dead, or we can’t die, and it’s hopeless, we want to die, I can’t live without you and it’s killing us both. 

Or maybe it didn’t mean anything at all. Flowers were weird like that.

Surface poked their head up in interest, though, as Silence finished up the flower crown. It looked kind of rough, and the flowers were wilting in some places and it smelled like getting locked in your relatives basement in the summer. 

But Surface seemed to like it. And they liked it even more as Silence set it down on their head. The flowers looked nice, from a distance. Provided that Surface didn’t just immediately eat it, it would be fine.

Silence leaned back down on the ground, and quietly began to weave some more flowers. It’s not like anyone would ask about what they meant, so maybe he could get away with a rude one.


	18. Perfect Replica (Silence, Trapper, the Thing)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: The Thing, Silence, Trapper
> 
> Ships: None
> 
> SFW

Silence hadn’t known at first, was the thing. 

He entered the storage room first, with Trapper behind him. It was only half lit, dark and muggy, the chains dangling from overhead in some faintest of breeze, something that slipped through the cracks of the walls. A cold breeze. Silence shivered into his jacket, and leaned down near the right shelf. Looking for the correct supplies.

“Do you think it’s here?” he called quietly, not bothering to turn behind himself at Trapper. It was- what, it was some kind of can opener, if he was right. Hidden beneath the shelves of old and rusted. 

Who knew how much longer they’d all be stuck out here. Silence dug down further into a shelf, shoving away aged cans of oil. At least the power was on here. Sure, the others didn’t really like it, but they couldn’t leave yet either. Plague would just have to get over it, same with the Pig. It wasn’t fun, but the Entity had something in mind, so they had to wait it out. Is what Silence had thought at first, but now that strange things kept happening, he had darker suspicions. That’s why he hadn’t wanted to go to the storage room alone.

Briefly, Silence wished Surface was here too, but- no. That would be kind of mean. Asking Surface to stay trapped here for however long, with- _something_ here too.

“Found it!” Silence shouted, yanking out the can opener. Good, that meant they could get the fuck out of here. It was... quiet in here now, actually. Trapper usually had something to say, or something to grab. Silence suddenly, sharply, realized just how silent the entire room was.

Silence didn’t want to, but slowly, he turned around. Cautiously. Catching a glimpse of something red, something edged, something dripping and something hungry.

Trapper was standing there. But-

But-

That wasn’t Trapper anymore.

“Oh shit,” Silence’s eyes went wide, and he could only just dodge out of the way, from the- the thing. Whatever the fuck this was. It had Trapper’s skin but had ripped it apart, torn into his skin and turned bones into teeth and flesh into tendrils. Hungry, starving. Screaming. Oh god. It screamed louder than Surface ever had, and it tore across the room to get Silence. Ripping apart shelves, jumping through sheets of plywood. Silence shifted his stance to try and jump for the outside, but the Thing was quicker. 

He wouldn’t make it to the door in time. Silence fell to the ground, he heard the Thing deeply bellow and roar and then fall upon his legs- oh god, it’s mouth had torn open to the chest and these fucking _tendrils_ were coming out and-

“Get off!” Silence screamed, kicking. Impact. The Thing screeched in pain, the sound of flesh smoldering and burning so slightly at the contact with Silence’s constant burning flesh, and then the Thing was scurrying back and away as fast as it could. Bones snapped back into place as it shoved into an air vent, and Silence could only watch in muted horror as it yelped and slithered away. Horror, then complete silence.

“Fuck.”

Silence watched the empty air vent. The room suddenly felt much, much colder. Wha- where had Trapper gone? Gone, maybe, just _gone_\- but then, this Thing- where had it gone? Into the vents. To the base. 

He had to warn everyone else.

Silence scrambled to his feat and then burst running out the door, towards the others. And vaguely, he could only think that he was glad Surface wasn’t here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, the Thing is fun. And terrifying. I love the original


	19. Finally Me (Reader, Main 4 Survivors)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Reader, Entity, Dwight, Jake, Meg, Claudette
> 
> Ships: None
> 
> SFW
> 
> A special work for my friend, who is a trans woman. Features a trans woman reader. Enjoy

If anyone ever asked, you’d have said that the Entity taking you was the best thing that ever happened to you.

It sounds silly. Maybe it is. But it’s the truth too, in that messed up way.

It starts like this:

You were a happy child in the perfect nuclear home, living the suburban American Dream. 

In truth, it was more like this: 

You were an unhappy child in an fake home, with parents desperately clinging to the American ideal of the 1950’s. The manufactured life; the housewife, the husband, the daughter and the son.

You were the son. But you hadn’t wanted to be.

Years rolled into themselves. You can remember, clearly, things like trying on your mother’s makeup in secret. The feeling of a dress, worn in secret. The smell of perfume, sharp and cloying. Your parents, their disappointment. Their disgust.

Baseball games. Sports. No crying. Cut your hair, son. Why can’t you just behave?

You grew up unhappy. Your life felt like a bad movie, one that would never end. At age nineteen, you graduated highschool- a late bloomer, your parents had called you. As if they hadn’t desperately tried to keep you for themselves as long as they could. 

At age nineteen, after that graduation ceremony, you walked off towards a nearby woods to cry. And then-

Ceased to exist entirely.

Black and orange claws. A hundred crows. Screaming.

The Entity had taken you.

You met the others. You’d held your breath, waiting for them to sneer at your female address, waiting for them to tilt their heads and ask if they’d misheard you. It always happened. And when it didn’t, well, your parents had made sure that everyone knew that “oh, he’s just lying.”

But it never came.

“Nice to meet you, miss,” Dwight Fairfield had stuttered, waving to you. If anything, he had blushed. Looking around nervously, but not out of disgust. Not fear.

And Jake had nodded and Meg had grinned and Claudette had smiled softly as she brought you over to sit near her. 

“It’s nice to have another girl here,” her eyes twinkled, “What’s your name?”

You told her. Your true name, the name you’d always called yourself, the one you’d wanted. And Claudette’s eyes were nothing but welcoming, and she didn’t laugh, didn’t insist that you stop joking. Instead, she squeezed your hand once and then began to tell you everything about the place you were now stuck in.

It’s ironic, is all you can say, that in a realm of torture and dying, you feel happier than you’ve ever been.


	20. One Late Night (Steve, Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Steve Harrington, Reader 
> 
> Ships: Steve Harrington/Reader
> 
> Mildly NSFW

Hawkins High School was empty. All the teachers had gone home, all the students were away. The lights in the hall were on overhead, but that didn't mean a thing. It looked eerie, this late at night, no one around at all.

No one but you. And, Steve.

It sounded like the setup of a bad movie. But you loved movies, and you knew how to make the cliches work. Steve was here late finishing up some science project. In Mr. Johnson's classroom, near the gym. Steve wasn't really expecting you, but... you felt like, as his special someone, it was okay. Something to cheer him up, after Nancy. And you loved jumpscares.

Steve was so fun to tease, too.

He didn't hear the classroom door open. He was opening some cabniets near the back, saying something and scratching his neck. Your sneakers didn't even make noise, across the ground, and your sweater made quiet little fabric sounds in the silence. He didn't hear you at all.

One step behind him. Your eyes drifted down to his behind, but only for a moment, a sly, excited grin on your face. 

You jumped forward.

Steve didn't have time to react. He was taller than you, sure, but a bad fighter. You shoved him right against the wall, pressing your chest against his back, leaning on your tiptoes to reach his ear.

"Gotcha," you laughed. Squeezed his hand, the one you had held behind his back. Steve made a choked noise, surprised sound in his throat that became a gasping groan as you pressed *right* up against him. Grinding against him ever so slightly, the curve of his ass flush against you.

"Why, Mr. Harrington," you whispered huskily, giving a soundless, breathy giggle, "Looks like you're all alone. Good boys like you shouldn't be out alone this late."

"Really?" Steve managed, and it sounded almost amused, until your eyes became deadly and your grin became a smirk. You closed the last bit of distance, nosing his neck, places where you'd left bruises from last time, too faded to be seen. You snaked your free hand up into his hair, tangling it in the waves and then giving a sharp _yank_ Whatever Steve was going to say, it turned into a surprised moan. And even that was smothered as you opened your mouth _juuust_ a little, then bit down on his exposed throat.

Not hard enough to bruise. But maybe just hard enough to notice later. Little teeth marks on his skin, his gasping and panting breaths, barely able to stand up.

"Poor Steve," you laughed into his skin, and you could feel him smiling too, though his legs shook, and your eyelashes dragged against his neck with a slow blink, "I'm going to _ruin you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commissioned by a friend. Steve gets pegged ™


	21. Almost Another (Frank, Silence)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: The Legion | Frank, Silence
> 
> Ships: None
> 
> SFW

It smelled like burnt flesh.

Frank’s mask didn’t do a very good job of blocking out the stench. It was so fucking strong- strong enough to make him want to gag. Cooked flesh, and the smell of burnt rubber. Like a car wreck that was twisted in all the worst ways. Even in the Fog, Frank could smell it- like it was right beside him.

Then the Fog cleared. Frank’s eyes flew open wide, and he stumbled back. What the fuck? Was this some fucked up Trial? Because- because there was already a Killer there. A body on the ground, and Frank guessed that maybe it was that one chick, the athlete. Her face was pulverized to a pulp, and there was a brutality there that made even Frank shift.

He didn’t know what Killer would have done this, and he didn’t want to find out, either; Frank really didn’t want to be alone with whoever the fuck was. Being mistaken for a Survivor was one fucking thing, but if they thought he was one now, Frank didn’t think it would end well. For either of them.

So Frank was gonna leave. Like, right now. Whatever the Entity was trying to do, he wasn’t fucking having it, and he was going to find a way out and just _get out_.

What was it those Survivors did? Shit. Creep to the sides with the shadows. Don’t make any fucking noise. And if _whoever_ found him- well, Frank had a knife, and wasn’t exactly some _Survivor_ who couldn’t fight back. 

Each step felt painfully loud, in the silence. Occasionally, Frank could hear some Survivor’s scream, which wasn’t worrying, except for how terrified they sounded. A little unnerving. Gradually, their scream died off, and Frank had that distinct feeling that, everyone was dead. Except for him. Which meant- the Hatch. He had to find the Hatch. Fuck, this was messed up. <del>If</del> When Frank got out of this, he was going to go a little easier on the Survivors. Maybe. Just for one Trial.

“Shit,” Frank hissed. He could see the Hatch in the distance, right in the middle of the field.

Frank shifted his gaze around warily, before sucking in a sharp breath and breaking into a dead sprint towards it. Just had to reach it. Get out. Running was easy, and for a moment, Frank could almost see the darkness of the Hatch, _so close_.

Until something snapped around his leg.

“Fuck!-“ Frank shouted, followed by a dull _thump_ as he met the ground. Fuck. _Shit_. Frank spun around onto his back, noticing that there was some kind of motorcycle chain wrapped around his ankle. Shit, shit shit. Frank followed it, and his eyes landed on- the Killer. On-

“Silence?”

It- it was Silence. Shit, it was Silence, but all wrong. Smelled like burnt flesh and melted rubber. Had a feral glow to his eyes, all black and neon orange gaze, and he was *heaving*, looming over Frank, covered in blood and soot. With a _yank_, he dragged Frank closer. Frank dug his hands into the ground instead.

“Jesus fucking- Silence! What the fuck, let me _go_!”

Sure, Silence and Frank had a- rivalry? Some weird friendship, in a way, and Frank wouldn’t ever admit it but if there was ever trouble, Silence would be the first other Killer he’d run to. Which made this all the more fucked up, in his mind. He’d never- never _seen_ Silence like this before. It- it was fucking terrifying. 

Fuck. 

Silence stopped pulling, at least. Maybe he was just pissed off. Frank tried to kick the chain off again, but it was stuck there tight, and there was no getting out. Silence was staring, though. Still heaving, but not raising up his weapons to finish it.

“Listen- listen, hey, Silence-“ god, Frank was babbling, but if he stopped he’d just start freaking out again, “You know me. Come on, let me go- don’t- don’t fuckin’ do this-“

Silence just kept fucking _staring_.

Finally, Silence stepped back, giving the chain a tug, and it released. Frank backpedalled in the dirt. Silence was still twitching, like some kind of druggie tweaked out of his mind, and well, maybe he was; the glow of Entity juice in him said something, alright. Frank’s hands touched the edge of the Hatch, and yet, he was still staring at Silence.

Frank hoped it would be a long fucking time before he ever had this happen again.

He slid into the Hatch, and disappeared from the Trial. 

And Silence continued to stand there. Staring at the closed Hatch. The Entity whispering in his mind.

_You hated him_,” the voice whispered, _This was your reward. Why did you resist?_”

Silence didn’t respond. It was so hard to resist. But- but Frank was his, _friend_. And even if it took all of Silence’s control, he wouldn’t- he wouldn’t. He didn’t hate Frank. Not like this. He wouldn’t- couldn’t tear him apart like- like that. No, not his friends.

No matter what the Entity whispered.

Even if it hurt.


	22. Just Once (Ghostface, Reader)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ghostface, Reader
> 
> Ships: Ghostface/Reader
> 
> SFW

Running.

Feet pounding into dirt. The awful, caked smell of ash; stuck to your clothes, your throat, clinging to your _lungs_. It tastes like losing. Like- a game over screen, black and red, blood from your nose spilling down your chin.

Laughter behind you. God, you can’t stop running. You _tried_. You tried clawing your way to a corner and hoping he’d just leave. That, you’d make it out, that a teammate would get you up and you’d slip away.

You’d _tried_ and it _hadn’t even worked_. Not that, not the decisive strike, not the taunting or the begging or _anything_.

And he’s behind you now, chasing you, and you’re _terrified_.

Where’s the exit gate? You can’t remember. You’re running so hard your throat is raw and bloody and you’re coughing up ash, but you can’t stop, and the wind is tearing at your face, like tears, like realizing you’ve got nowhere to run and you’re _dying_.

Blood slips between your fingers. A horrible little laugh bubbles up and out, hysterical, and you can hear a camera shutter between the gasps.

Where? Where do you _go_? Your teammates left and he’s _right behind you_ and, there’s a window, you scramble to it and nearly lose your footing and then-

Vaulting it. One moment. A single moment of pure terror as you hear that knife whiz through the air, the sound of his raspy breathing right in your ear. It might as well have been a love poem, from him. You hold your breath and pray.

The knife slams into the brick wall.

You make it over.

Blood coats the ground behind you. It’s a terrible trail, and even your burst of speed isn’t enough to save you for much longer. You’re running blind, and Ghostface is only going to get closer. His laughter is only going to get louder. 

If your team was still here-

If they hadn’t _left_, you’d have been able to get out.

_If they hadn’t-_

Focus. Can’t focus. It’s so hard to focus, your lungs feel like they’re breaking apart. God, this is like the worst hangover combined with the worst migraine, and you’re still trying to get away, anywhere but here.

Anywhere but here. What a horrible thing to wish for, you idly think, as you come crashing into a dead end. It hurts in all the ways that it does and all the ways it shouldn’t.

_Shit._

You spin around anyway. You know exactly what you’ll see, and you’re right, you see Ghostface stalking towards you. Languidly. Its funny, except that it isn’t. You’ve graduated past panic a long time ago. Now it’s only resignation.

<del>And you’re so afraid-</del>

Blood pools under your feet. You feel it dripping down your mouth, cold from your eyes, clacking breaths in your lungs. His knife glints for a moment as he raises it up, fabric rustling in the almost silence. 

“Sorry,” he says, shrugs, and then sends the knife down anyway.

Maybe you’ll forgive him one day.


	23. Deadman’s Gun (Jake Park, Deathslinger)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Jake Park, Deathslinger
> 
> Ships: None
> 
> SFW
> 
> Cowboy AU

The gallows creaked underfoot, wood shifting, Jake shifting. The noose is too tight around his neck. Enough to notice, enough to itch and taunt, _you aren’t getting out of this_. Still, he isn’t paying attention to that; not to the sound of the hangman, reciting lines, not to the crowd watching, the sheriff smiling and someone cheering, something, all noise. All noise now, lost. No, Jake is staring off to the horizon, to the entrance of the town. Looking. Waiting. Any second now, Caleb and the others will come riding in. Any second, and they’ll save him. They’d always saved each other before. Always. When Caleb had run in with the law, and Jesse and Jake had been the ones to bust him out. When Ms. O’Connor’s life was on the line. Caleb and the others- they always came.

Jake looks for them. Even as the hangman stops talking, as the crowd goes silent, as the sheriff grunts something- the wood creaks again, Jake shifting, the hangman stepping away. Someone says a prayer. Jake’s still looking. They’ll come. They always came. They’ll come. Maybe he’s the one praying, maybe that’s his prayer. They’ll come. They’ll come-

The floor falls out under him. Jake still looks. The noose snaps, taut. His vision goes stark black and his ears fill with fuzz, and he’s still waiting. Praying. 

It all goes quiet then.

They don’t come.


	24. Out of Body Experience (Jake, the Clown)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Jake Park, Michael Myers, the Clown, Ghostface
> 
> Relationships: Michael Myers/Ghostface
> 
> SFW
> 
> Part of the Out of Body AU, an AU that my friend and I made where Michael/Jake and Feng/Ghostface now share the same mind. Because the Entity thinks it’s hilarious to make Myers be the one who’s chased now.

There’s the wheezing sound. Rattling, awful cough, dry and rusted like blood. Jake can’t stand it. He can’t stand to hear it, and especially not now, not when he’s holding his own breath so tight. 

In the distance, the Clown laughs.

This situation isn’t ideal, Jake thinks. All of the other Survivors are dead. Dwight died first- and Jake can’t really say he’s upset, but he is a little. Dwight barely stood a chance. He might have been a coward, but today, the Clown was cruel.

Claudette went next. She lasted longer, but she couldn’t keep her sounds of pain quiet, and the Clown snatched her from a locker and laughed as he dragged her down into the basement. She didn’t come out.

And then, Meg. She was trying to buy Jake time, maybe. He isn’t sure. She screamed loud and awful, and then there was the silence, and now, Jake’s here. Trying to stifle his whispers of pain, trying to find the way out. He knows why the Clown saved him for last, and it has everything to do with those pictures Ghostface slipped the man. 

Danny thought it was funny. For a little. Until he realized just why, exactly, the Clown wanted pictures of Jake. And Michael could only really stare as the Clown hacked and stroked the photographs, whispering things, smiling. Danny didn’t laugh after that. 

And now, here Jake is. Because the Entity thinks it’s hilarious; putting Jake in with the Clown, right after, and now Jake’s in the worst situation he can think of, just so the Entity could get... whatever it is it gets out of this. Nothing good. If Jake was Michael- if he could just loom and choke the life out of the Clown- then this wouldn’t be happening.

But it is. And, from the sounds of it, the Clown is getting closer. 

Blood slips through Jake’s fingers, and he tries to move away as quietly as he can. It’s a little easier than when he’s a Killer, and he’s a lot smaller now too. He even smiles a little as the heartbeat fades. The Hatch is close. 

And maybe, he realizes a little too late, that was all according to the Clown’s plan.

“Gotcha!” the Clown wheezes, and Jake only has enough time for a grunt before the Clown yanks his leg back. It buckles painfully, and then Jake falls, landing on his chest with his hands outstretched. He shouldn’t be surprised, but he is, a little. The Clown drags him back through the dirt with a leer, and Jake kicks, face a snarl, blood matting his scarf. He’s not strong enough to escape. The Clown knows this too; he’s giggling. 

“Been waiting so long for this,” he whispers, “I’ve got everything ready.... hehehehhhh...”

Is this the Entity’s plan? To make Jake really, really suffer? He can’t even grab a weapon, because he’s a Survivor now, all soft edges and big eyes. Vulnerable. The Clown is laughing, and Jake knows he can’t escape, can only bare his teeth and imagine ripping the Killer limb from limb later on. Already trying to forget what’s about to happen, because it’s all he can do.

“Smile, won’t you?” the Clown cooes.

“Hey, dickwad, that’s my line,” a new voice grunts. Jake looks up, and he’s surprised to see Ghostface, standing near one of the entrances. Oh, he has a knife. Selfish. 

“What?” Clown barely has time to ask. 

“I said, Jake is mine. Leave; you’re not his type.”

The Clown stands up. He is, unfortunately, taller than Danny, Jake notes. Danny is much shorter than anyone else already, so that’s not much contest. But, Ghostface doesn’t back down, and instead, he wiggles his knife.

“Mine’s bigger.”

Jake smiles into the dirt. 

“We could share,” Clown bargains, like that doesn’t make Jake want to reach up and pop his eyes from his sockets. Ghostface does a so So motion with his hand.

“Or, I could kill you right now. We both know who the Entity likes more, right?”

It’s a dirty trick, and it might not even work. But, after a few moments, the Clown steps back. He grunts down at Jake, “I’ll see you next time then.” Then, he disappears.

Next time. Next time, Jake will give him a knife through the chest.

“Well, looks like I got here just in time,” Danny drawls. “Need a hand?”

“It’s your fault to begin with,” Jake mumbles, but accepts, hauling himself up.

“You weren’t complaining when I was giving photos to Trapper.”

“Evan doesn’t stalk me.”

“I stalk you.”

“Unfortunately, I’m stuck with you.”

“Ouch. You’re a real killer, y’know that?”

Jake smiles. And maybe he is grateful that his friend showed up. But mostly, he’s just planning on how he’s going to stalk Feng in the next Trial as payback. It’ll be fun.


End file.
